- Lunch Tray's & Razor Blades -
by VintageTypewriter2346
Summary: Can insanity truly be normality? HaruXKou [Dabble]
1. Chapter 1

_~ Lunch trays with a dash of razor blades ~_

Insane: another form or category in society to group others against each other—it's _that_ simple.

You don't have to freak-out in a super-market to be deemed _insane_ —you just have to do something completely unjustified—speak/talk to yourself, attempt suicide over twenty times, tells a therapist you see spirits or hear voices—insanity has no limits. Ha, but human-beings… they do.

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 _Tray's~ Razor blades_

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" _Day 105,"_ the male thought.

Sitting in his back-breaking white cot—a hand-me-down from tax-payers. Clad in the same clothes: white pants and t-shirt.

Day after day he does the same thing—lay on the cursive bed, staring at the ceiling waiting for the lunch bell or a nurse to come around to give him a needle. As he lays aimlessly he listens to the _voices—_ not just any type of voice, but his own thoughts that ramble on-and-on about different topics—it's a sure way to keep him awake for more than ten-minutes.

A hundred and five days ago he would put up an unbreakable defense to prove he isn't _crazy_ —he's innocent!

That was before he knew what an insane asylum: looked, smells, feels and taste like.

These bleach-white padded walls are making him believe the jury, his lawyer and the judge were right—maybe he is insane.

Is there something wrong with him?

No—no there can't be. He used to function perfectly-well in society before all this—okay, maybe he didn't speak much but that doesn't make him a nut-case, right? Then again, what does make you crazy?

Placing an arm over his bright-blue eyes he sighs for the shaggy black-locks of hair that tickle his tanned skin—if there was one thing he missed the most since being placed in this shit-hole, it had to be water – he loves water like it's another form of breathing.

Sometimes he'd pretend the ceiling was a watery surface playing with the light on its wavering seal. Even though the swimmer can imagine the water it isn't the same—he wishes to feel the liquid forming to his every curve. It still wouldn't be the same if he were to have the best imagination in the world—he _needs_ to feel _real_ water.

Suddenly a buzz comes from the white-metal door, instantly he looks over with his deep-blue eyes to see a nurse dressed in a white pair of scrubs. He greets her—it's too much effort—just watching as she walks into the room cheerfully.

"Good-morning!" the nurses greets with a smile—the male grunts as a response. At first he thought the medicine-hat woman was popping her patient's _happy-pills_ when the cameras weren't looking—it made sense in more than one way. "Did you sleep well?" she giggles while rolling in a cart.

His dark-hues of blue look over to the wheeling drugs—the trays upon trays of different pills, plastic dishes the preppy-nurse would hand over on a daily basis, and the large water machine that's half empty by the time she gets to his cell.

The nurse sighs for her patients silence—he hasn't said one word to her in months and it's unsettling.

How's he supposed to get better if he won't communicate with the people who're supposed to help?

"You should be excited!" the nurse exclaims with a bright demeanor—he doesn't give her a second glance.

"They've released a patient from isolation today," the nurse continues with her hands fiddling with his medication.

He couldn't care any less for the psycho who's been released from isolation—aka: the straight jacket—if anything he's wondering what kind of sick fuck got placed in the suit. Since arriving the quiet inmate has only seen two people thrown into a straight-jacket—it wasn't a pretty sight.

The first person was a young boy—he was being picked on by the other nut-cases and snapped finally. He only remembers seeing the younger male leaping over a table with a spoon-end in hand, knocking his bully to the ground with a crazed look in his eye as he stabbed the other patient with the sharp plastic-edge.

Nut-case number two—he was an elderly man—placed in here for hearing voices and prostitutes for _the lord_. He landed in a hugging-jacket when he started talking to the cooks in the kitchen—calling them: whores, demons and preaching that _God_ was telling him to kill every one of them.

Thanks to that _freak_ , the whole ward went into some-kind-of-lock-down. Patients were ordered back to their rooms, guards on watch, staff went home and nurses provided powder-meals. All because one nutty Jesus-freak with an extra dosage of psychotic went off the rails.

"Maybe you'll become friends,"—not happening. He refuses to make friends with loonies—he doesn't belong here—it's only a matter of time till his lawyer brings his case back to court and proves to the judge _he's_ innocent.

He's no murderer.

Taking the pills in the container from the unknown-nurse, he tips it back and the tablets fall onto his tongue like candy, which he quickly chases away with a gulp of water. There's a slight after-taste as he opens his mouth to the woman—she looks inside to see nothing is left—just in case he tried to fool her.

"Alright," she calls out as she wheels the cart to the door—her eyes contact with the guard outside before she nods. "He can go for breakfast now," the nurse tells the mute muscular guard.

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 _Tray's~ Razor Blades_

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Silently he creeps into the cafeteria—not wanting attention from the other patients—even though he's still preferably new to the hospital, he knows that being noticed only makes trouble.

He steps into the silent line of patients, grabbing a tray from the lunch-lady with a sour-face and massive mole on her cheek as the hair-net barely covers her greying hairs. Thankfully he's never found a hair in his food—or so he hopes.

As the line moves the ladies behind the counter slop the usual breakfast onto their trays: toast, scrambled eggs (optional), milk or orange juice (depends on whether the women like you), one sausage, bowl of rice (optional) or oatmeal (optional).

Once his tray's filled with different food—mostly: eggs and rice—he makes his way to his usual table. In the back of the cafeteria where no one bothers to look or walk.

It was the easiest place to sit and avoid others, but he stops once he see's someone sitting there—back towards him as they causally sit on the bench.

His mind races with words he would like to say to this… this _new-comer_. It's on the lines of cursing, insults and drowning the person—he tenses for the sudden shock of rage; before coming here, he wouldn't get this angry _so_ quickly, especially over something this minor.

It's the insane asylum—insanity is quite contagious it seems.

Groaning he walks over to the table, sits down across from the person and stares at the individual. Bright maroon hair—long and flat from the institutions cheap donations—her lips are bloody and cracked—eyes of red dull as she blankly looks down at the oatmeal in her bowl. In short the _new-comer_ looks like shit.

The male peers at her baggy white shirt that dangles slightly off her shoulder—she seems familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it—should he care?

Of course he doesn't give a shit—then he notices that she hasn't touched her food, even as he begins to eat his breakfast—her eyes only stare at the oatmeal as her fingers grasp the spoon; it's like she doesn't know how to eat anymore. Which isn't something _he's_ ready to deal with—if the woman doesn't start eating the nurses and guards will take note, such notes will cause them to walk over—dragging everyone's attention to the table—and asking: if she needs help or wants someone to feed her.

It's small, indeed, but he doesn't want to take the risk—someone like him would be targeted within a glance.

"You should eat," he bothers to tell the strange woman as her fingers flicker on the plastic spoon—it's more of a twitch. "The nurses will notice and force you—"

The male swallows his words when the woman's cracked lips part as if she was going to say something. Listening closely he hears the crack of my tongue but, no words come out, which is unsettling to the male.

"What were you going to say?" he questions softly; her lips close and her dull eyes return to the oatmeal—whatever she was going to tell him had vanished. When the gut-wrenching feeling of being watched creeps up his skin, he looks over to the guard and nurse on duty—both were staring at his table, directly at the woman before him. They must've taken notice.

"You've got to eat," he sighs; reaching over the table he grabs her hand—it's cold like ice but soft like feathers. "Here," he whispers while helping the crimson-woman scope oatmeal onto the plastic utensil. "Open your mouth," moving the spoon to her cracked lips the sticky-syrup from the oatmeal glosses her flesh.

Due to the closeness he could see the dark-red stains under her eyes—the torture within her soul and body. She is a pain-filled beauty.

"Inmate!" the guard snaps; he's suddenly thrown back and the plastic spoon breaks against the wall. "No touching others," the guard spits.

The male's eyes lock with the guard before looking over to see a nurse by the woman's side—he could tell the red-head was breaking by the presence of authority. "Get up," the guard orders and the blue-eyed patient obeys.

"You have to eat something," the nurse whispers to the beauty. "You're weak from the isolation room."

The male patient freezes for the news— _this_ was the person released from isolation… _today?_ From his point-of-view she didn't look insane or murderous; just malnourished and weak.

Keeping his eyes on the woman he eats his food. She doesn't seem to be listening to the kind-nurse who's constantly trying to feed her oatmeal—but for the nurses presence the table is awkward. Not because of the woman doing her job, but the other patients staring at the red-head with smug expressions and giddy behavior. They weren't going to calm down anytime soon either since the guard was growing impatient—probably because he wasn't getting the attention he craved from the nurse by the newcomers side.

"Are you _that_ fucked up, crazy?" the blue-eyed male flinches for the guard's words—the woman doesn't budge.

"Do ya' hear me _freak!_ "—the guard slams his palms against the table, making it vibrate and the woman's oatmeal to shake. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"—she does but with dead eyes.

The brute male is silent for the blackness in her eyes, the death lingering within her crimson hues and numbness from the insanity. _'She's definitely pissed, asshole,'_ the male patients thoughts chirp from his bowl of rice.

The red-head stands from the bench and wipes her body towards the exit before slowly leaving without saying a word. Such actions only create curiosity within the blue-eyed male on the other side of the table.

* * *

The winner of the HaruXGou fic idea is Lunch Tray and Razor Blades.

The other three idea's and polls will remain. Maybe in the near future I will continue them and finish the plots.

Enjoy.

~Bleachlover2346


	2. Chapter 2

_~Lunch Tray's with a dash of Razor Blades~_

Numb—some describe it as pins and needles continuously pricking your skin—cat claws or shock racing through your muscles. It's painless—they're lairs… completely unaware of the truth.

Being numb is the most painful thing in the world.

Nothing feels good—not a taste nor a sound. The colorful world becomes black-and-white without words—without texture—without… flare. Emotions are forgotten, senses are myths— sensation and pleasure are folk-stories.

Numbness is the deadness which remains after being broken.

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 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

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The eyes—some say it's the gateway to someone's soul. If such a quotation is true then the shrink should know everything about her patients: what makes them ticks? Why were they placed in an asylum? Do they have any emotions in their empty-shell like minds?

None of such questions can be solved because the eyes are indeed the gateway, but they don't tell anyone's story truthfully.

"It's been quite a while since we last spoke, Matsuoka-chan,"—cliché—the only word which lingers within the red-heads mind as she looks over the shrink.

' _She hasn't changed,'_ her thoughts taunt; tilting her head to the side she hears an unpleasant but relaxing _crack_ from her joints. _'105 days,'_ she continues to recall the horrible days and nights within the isolation room—everything was white; the only color was from her maroon locks but red quickly seems a faded grey after endless torment.

She couldn't understand it though—how the shrink still looks exactly the same? There isn't one new wrinkle, not a spider-thin strain of grey hair—her white-lab coat is still as white as the isolation room—she's still wearing her classic flimsy heels which remind the inmates of cheap Vegas dancers.

The room still lingers with the infamous scent of test-tubes, fresh paper, ink and the shrink's overly-expensive Chanel perfume. It's like time came to a halt when she was dragged from the regular-wing of the psychiatric-ward.

Hearing the continuous sound of the file-papers flipping, she looks over the office. There is nothing special about the woman's office—everything is nearly white: cotton balls within jars, tongue compressors, a white coat, a few brain diagrams and diploma's hanging on the white walls.

"Matsuoka…chan?"—hearing the shrinks shocked voice she looks over to the shocked woman. "You were in isolation all this time?"—she _just_ figured such a fact out?

The patient nods solemnly—105 days in isolation—105 days of being fed through a tube—105 days of barely being about to shower—105 days… of utter and complete insanity.

The red-head watches—watches the horror within the intelligent-doctors eyes grow; all of her hard work was more than likely lost because of her long stay within the patted-rooms of the institution. All of the shrinks' endless session with the maroon-patient, prying the truth and feelings from the patients lips, every tear and gasp, each question along with confusion—all is lost.

Panic came to the shrink as she tosses the file to the floor—years of different sheets scatter over the white-tile like shattering glass. The crimson woman looks down to the sheets—several streaks of red covering the papers—it's something she'd figured a _mad-woman_ would do.

"This session is over," the shrink says with a shaken tone—she didn't sound like her usual self. "Guards!"

Looking left and right the patient see's glimpses of the stocky-male figures opening the door behind her. Their grey-uniforms are like splashes of paint over the white building, "What is it?" one of the men ask.

The shrink gives them a frail smile, "our session is done for the day. Please take patient 2004251 back to her cell"—that number: 2004251, it's basically her name now, one she never agreed to.

Standing from the chair she goes to the door—head bowed and eyes on her white-sneakers with hints of stains from others' who've broken the rules in the cafeteria.

As the red-head exits the room she looks over to the other shrinks office, the one used for the male patients in the ward—her cracked lips twitch for the male sitting in the office with the shrink. Their eyes lock for a brief second—for once, throughout being in the white institution for years, she saw another color besides white—she saw blue too.

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 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

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Crimson—eyes of red—he always thought the devil would have such hues within his orbs. For some reason, _her_ ruby eyes give him peace and reassurance inside this white-walled hell.

But, just as fast as they locked eyes she was gone once again—leaving him with many question—too many questions for his liking. He hated a scattered mind and brain—it makes he feel like he is insane.

"So, Haruka-senpai," the boring male shrink clear his throat—the blue-eyed male looks over to the man with red-framed glasses, navy-blue hair that's slicked back and his tanned skin. He's someone he knows—he knows him from High-school.

At first the blue-eyed patient thought the world was microscopic—especially since he'd only met the boy in his sophomore year of high-school.

Nothing has changed though—he still insists on calling him by his full-name and to use the _'senpai'_ prefix—the blued-patient secretly wonders whether it's a good idea for a therapist to be addressing his client with such respect. Haruka Nanase is _supposedly_ an aphasic psychopath.

"I heard you sat with someone at breakfast today"—correction: he sat at the same table and there happened to be someone there. The blue-eyed male didn't make any effort to sit with some nut-case. "A woman at that"—male or female doesn't matter, regardless they're in here for something and he didn't want to get involved with psycho's.

A long pause fills the office—there was nothing to say about the events at breakfast, in his eyes he just wanted to avoid any confrontation. He didn't have any feelings towards the woman—expect curiosity.

"From what the guards are telling me, it seems like you're adjusting to the institution swimmingly"— _swimming_ —Haru figured he snuck that word into the sentence just to see if he'd give him some kind of reaction; he got one.

"I miss the water," the silent patient says; running his fingers through his raven-locks he looks down at his sneakers with a frown. His one love is out of his reach.

The shrink is silent for his confession—there isn't anything he could truly say for the matter. When the water-loving male first came to the facility he wondered how long he'd last without his precious _water-sama._

It didn't take long but his addict-behavior has gotten better—before Haru would continuously shake his knee, look around the office and never make eye-contact, when he'd hear a slight representation of water he'd relax the slightest. Now, he's calm—the shaking has halted and eye contact is being maintained.

"I can see if the director will allow the patience to have field trip soon"—the blue-eyed male's hopes don't awaken; it's not the only time he's heard the shrink tell him such fables. When he first arrived he told him the same shit and it never happened—105 days and nothing.

But then again, having a little hope can keep him from becoming comprehensively insane.

Rei—the shrink—leans forward with a sigh; if he wanted any progress from his patient he was going to have to make a deal or say something that will make him take action. Anything is better than nothing.

"Listen, Haruka-senpai," the swimmer is attentive. "I know you believe everyone in this institution is crazy—some are. But if you want to get out of here and back to the water, you need to make some progress so the court-system can see you are still fit for society's normality's."

Society's norms—it's basically stating he acts like the textbook's exact words; better known as a robotic fool with social skills, independence and basic functions.

"How?"—Haru doesn't care about the textbook ways; he just wants to get out of this hell-hole and back to his life—back to his water-sama.

Rei runs a hand through his navy-locks—he can see it; he's got Haruka Nanase hooked by his weakness: _water_. "Make a friend or a companion"—simple enough, right? More like fucking hell for the swimmer.

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 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

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Eyes shoot left and right to the different cell-doors. Her cell-block seems emptier than before.

It used to be packed with patience—many are well-known for their mental disorders and some, due to their actions which landed them inside the institution, made it into psychology and criminology textbooks. That's right: murderers, kidnappers, rapist and more were consistent residence in her wing of the hospital.

At first she was petrified—ready to piss her pants—but after a while and many hours of contemplation she accepted it. She subconsciously agreed with the jury; she belongs here with the worse of the worst.

A schizo — _a nut case_ —a Schizophrenic.

Schizophrenia; it's a commonly used word in crime shows—overly used if anything. Aside from the Hollywood high-lights and sex-magnets for actors—what _is_ schizophrenia?

A biological disorder the scientist say—a genetic fuck-up; a case of mommy or daddy being too addicted to a guilty adult pleasure or a piece of DNA that wasn't _just_ right.

One little slip and it can ruin everything within the brains genetic make-up. A reality can seem like a sickening fantasy—their body can become an indecisive prison like Alice in Wonderland but with a serious dose of OxyContin. Watching television or talking to someone can be a dodging-game of words—the subtitle may seem like a nifty helper for those with different disabilities, but for a schizophrenic it's like a football game and they are the defense-men.

 _Buzz!_

Entering the cell she's called home for the last few years—she hates the god-forbidden room and its' bright sultry walls of white.

The springs _creak_ from my weigh on the back-breaking bed, the sheets feel like sand-paper on her palms and the pillow is similar to a sock filled with coins. It doesn't matter though—why would it when everything around her feels _numb_?

She blames the pills—the little tablets of medication that's pumped in and out of her body like clock-work. Unlike the other patience with one or two pills she had several—a red pill: for the _words_ —yellow: for the mash-up of reality and fantasy—blue gets' rid of the voices and constant thoughts.

At first, before taking the medication, she barely remembered her past—her memories with her father were foreign, but now she can access them every once-in-awhile. Such a skill keeps her entertained within her cell for days on end—she enjoys her memories; it's like a movie which never ends.

The red-headed patient would continue to review her family life—her father and mother being a happy couple before her father drowned out at sea—her older brother: Rin and his overly-protective ways. They seemed like a perfectly normal family—she _seemed_ perfectly _normal._ Apparently that wasn't the case at all.

Sadly, all those people don't want any part of her exists. Her father is dead—mother dead inside before of her only daughter being a freak—her brother, her protector… through her aside like an empty pop-can.

Numbness doesn't get rid of the pain, it only makes it worse as time goes on.

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 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

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 _Crash! Bang! Shatter!_

The room looks like a disaster—medical chats are shredded, picture-frames are shattered and everything in sight has been tossed by the woman in her frantic storm.

"What the—"Rei stares as he looks over his colleague's office; she's always been a calm and collected woman without a single worry. What could've cause her to _break down_?

"Rei!" he tenses for the woman's voice; spying her in the corner of her office rocking he's surprised—she looks like a drug-addict going through withdrawal.

"What happened?" crouching down to the woman in the corner with a soothing voice he scans the office once more. "This _isn't_ like you at all."

The shrink's cheeks are flushed as she grasps the file next to her. "That asshole is what happened, Rei!"—the male narrows his eyes for her words. "The director! He locked one of _my_ patients in the isolation ward—"

"Patience are sent there all the ti—"

"For 105 days?" she interrupts—his eye widen for the news. "She was sent to the white-padded room for 105 days. Do you know how fucking difficult it is to get her to talk? At first it was like pulling teeth—now it's worse! She just stared at me like I'm some foreigner!"

"You need to calm down," Rei tries.

"I'm not going to calm down!" she stands from the floor and throws the file onto her desk. "First it was the exciting cases—the _extreme_ psychotics—now it's Kou? The poor girl is innocent for Christ-sakes."

"Stop," Rei silences the woman. "You cannot think like that. Do _you_ hear yourself? You're believing in your patient—that's against our ethic's as therapist. We're supposed to make them believe we think their innocent—"he stops in exhaustion; several classes and professor, including their boss, have told them the same thing— _never_ completely believe in your client. People are lairs but they need someone to listen to them, it helps the brain release mental stress. How could she say such things?

Sighing heavily he flops onto her couch and runs his fingers through his navy-locks—eyes glued to the woman in exhaustion. He notices the bags under her orbs and the slight drop in her shoulders. "You're burnt-out," he tell her solemnly. "Take the rest of the month off. I'll handle your patience—you need to take care of yourself."—she accepts.


	3. Chapter 3

_~ Lunch Tray's and Razor Blades ~_

Mutagen; silent and deadly.

A kiss of the bottle—one too many cuts—the thrill of being a _winner_ —taking one, no far too many hits.

All leading to a shivering breath that reeks of death pressing against your neck like blade against your flesh: cold, cruel and simple. It's like a _bump_ in the night—it makes your skin crawl.

It kills you slowly like cancer—taking everything and everyone in its fury; leaving nothing but a deafening silence that lingers.

 _Mu—ta—gen;_ everyone has their own but it's just the matter of control and the strength of the addiction which can be the prediction of your emanate doom.

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 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

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Anxious—it's the same feeling he's had for the last few days.

His stomach-aches for the disgusting sound of the unnamable food being _flopped_ onto his tray by the warty-woman. Holding his breath he waits for the patient in front of him to step out of line.

Turning on his heels his eyes latch onto the table _hoping_ for a flare of red to be seated—it's empty?

Haru's grasp shakes as his _'hopes'_ for her presence is lost—he walks to the table in silence.

He hasn't seen the red-headed woman since that day—the day the nurse and guard came over—when the darkened bruise on his back was still forming. Could she be in the isolation room? When he thought about the woman, the last time he saw her was outside of Rei's office—their eyes locked briefly but never said a word to each other. Heck—he doesn't even know her name or what her voice sounds like.

' _It's pointless, dammit!'_ —slamming the lunch tray onto the table his thoughts turn to curses. Haru's growing impatient—how was he supposed to be deemed sane and innocent when he's relying on some psychotic-bitch who doesn't need to eat?

' _Rei said: I need to make, at least, one companion or friend… right?'_ he thinks as he looks over the room—the many other patience are busy with their usual routines: chatting about pointless shit, some being fed by nurses, others trying to flirt with the lunch-ladies and (most) eating in utter silence without making eye-contact. _'Anyone should be fine'._

His bright eyes linger over the pool of crazies—maybe a male will work; he's always been able to make friends with guys—all of his friends (outside the institution) are males. So, getting one in here should be just as easy, right?

He scans through the men—he wants someone who's alone (it's less work for him)—someone who must've been a social-loser in society and barely had a single-friend; maybe a nerd? He couldn't mingle with the main-group of crazies, the ones who were sentenced to the institution because they pleaded insanity to get away with murder. It would only give the offensive-attorney an argument for the jury—probably something like: a bird flocks with those of the same feather.

Shaking his view from the loud-table in the middle of the cafeteria he continues his _"shopping"_ —when he notices a single-male sitting in the shade of the cafeteria he narrows his eyes—hair of white, pale skin like clouds, bright amber eyes; he barely seems eight-teen. Then again, he could be like his friend Nagisa—looks and acts young, but he's truly in his twenties.

Haru sighs—the boy probably snapped during an exam and flipped a desk, which landed him in the nut-house— _he's_ probably not _'that'_ crazy.

The rough cotton of his clothing _ruffles_ as he stands—the unknown male was going to be his new target.

His sneakers click on the white-tile as he walks around the table, but he stops—crimson.

She's looks up from her food—eyes different from the first time she sat with him, life has returned to her flaming orbs—her long red-hair is damp but sways down the back of her white-shirt—the hollows of her cheeks are fuller, like she's been well-fed for the last few days—then there's her lips: no longer cracked and chapped but full and luscious.

If she wasn't the only red-head in the asylum he would've never recognized her—she _is_ beautiful.

"Uh—" his voice cracks; she looks over to the table he was heading towards and smirks before walking past him in silence.

' _What the—that cocky bitch,'_ his grip tightens on his lunch-tray—he swirls around on his heels and takes his seat once again, but in front of the woman.

Kou remains silent as she keeps her eyes on her bowl of rice— _snap_ her chop-sticks sing as she begins her meal. She wanted to laugh at the male in front of her… and his decision to venture towards the lone-patient in the shadows—it's probably the stupidest decision someone could make in this hell-hole.

Hot—his gaze is hot on her flesh but she remains mute due to her curiosity. Was he going to continue staring at her? Perhaps he'll say something—maybe introduce himself?

Minutes roll by—all that is heard is the sound of chop-sticks clicking against the plastic-bowl—Haru isn't making any progress nor effort to speak to the vixen.

Kou notices his lack of eating and glances over to the nurse on duty—she's rocking on her heels—about to walk over (if anything). Could he be doing this to get her to say something? Ha—as if she gave a shit—she just spent three-days in her room with: a nurse, Pediatrician and a doctor. Apparently those 105 days in isolation were worse than she thought—she was malnourished, seriously dehydrated and weak.

She collapsed after her last visit to her therapist and immediately the guards called a nurse which lead to an intervention—basically the director told his boss that she has been on a hunger strike in the isolation-room which lead him to contain her for more than a month, but 105 days.

"3 days," she tenses for the deep-voice; looking up from her rice-bowl she observes the male opening his chop-sticks. "You were gone for 3 days."

' _He counted?'_ her eyes narrow for the realization—she thought nobody noticed her absence since she never affiliated with others. _'Idiot!'_ Kou's thoughts hiss; her grip on the chop-sticks tighten as she rips her eyes from him.

Haru notes her body-language: tense and uncertain, but he doesn't say anything further.

Unsettlement bubbles in her stomach—no one, not even her personal nurse, would count her days of invisibility and for some (fucked-up) reason it caused butterflies to flutter in her stomach—it felt like red-kissed coals rolling down a steep hill; unpleasant but pleasant at once.

Swallowing his rice he takes in a deep breath for her silence. _'Maybe that guy would've been bett—'_

Kou notices his bright-blue orbs lingering to the boy in the shadows again as she chews the last of her breakfast. "Hyata Okura"—he perks for the name and she sighs—"he slaughtered his own family, his friends, girlfriend, principal and teachers, along with his teammates on the soccer-team," Kou says as she stands from the table.

Haru freezes for the news—his eyes linger to the boy—he looks innocent. Looking up to the red-head he met with confidence and dull-eyes, "he was diagnosed with multiple personality disorder and is known to be a paranoid schizophrenic," without batting a lash she walks away from the table.

He watches the way she walks: sassy and feisty. As the guard opens the cafeteria door he narrows his eyes in curiosity— who the hell is this woman and why does she know so much?

His eyes linger towards the door—the guard has vanished to return the unnamable woman to her cell, leaving only one other male in a stocky-uniform watching over the nut-house, but, it's easier to say no one is paying mind since the nurse on duty is grasping his attention.

Looking through the tiny wired window he catches a brief glimpse of her red-hair, the guard holding her arm roughly while guiding her down the hallway like a miss-behaved child.

There's something about _her_ —something that intrigued him to a point of irritation.

 _._

 _._

 _Tray's~ Razor Blades_

 _._

 _._

Rubbing the tender flesh of her arm she glances over her shoulder to the door, as the guard closes it with an unneeded _bang_ before evacuating the premises. It wasn't unusual—most of the guards are pissed when they have to leave the cafeteria early, especially to escort a patient to her wing.

They disliked the three minute vulnerable window of time—it takes exactly three extra minutes to get to her cell-block. Anything could happen within those few minutes—a patient could go crazy and attack, someone could escape, all the patients could start a riot. Anything is possible when the guards are weakened slightly. But, she knows none of the patients will try any of those things because… they don't know this wing exist.

The director along with the prime-minister assured to hide the worst from the country, including the crazies in the institution. Why?

She pondered the same question continuously through her first year in the ward, but after grasping her balls in her hands and speaking to another psychotic-freak in the wing, she found out the truth—the truth about the _hidden wing._

 _Clink! Clink!_

Kou snaps her head towards the large vent on the left-side of her room. The light shining through the grates cause her to smirk before grasping the white-bars of her bed and pushing the coot against the white-wall.

Hopping onto the mattress she stretches up to the grate and looks through the cracks to meet two amber-eyes and aging blonde locks. "Welcome back"—a scruffy and rough voice; one she missed while in the isolation room.

"Thanks," Kou says quietly.

The male nods—she barely knows his name but he's been her cell-block neighbor since she began living in the ward. The only knowledge she needed to know about him was that he knew everything about the institution, from the history of the wings to the different owners of the building—along with the in's-and-out.

"How long?" he asks; Kou leans against the wall and stares up to the ceiling.

"105," she plainly answers.

"Whatcha' do this time?"

That's the thing—she did something that any woman would do, especially in that situation. When a male attempts to— "Fought back."

"From?"

"That guard," she closes her eyes, "the one who would sneak into my room."

He's silent for a moment, "I haven't seen him in a while."

"He's dead," Kou sighs.

The male-patient chuckles and _clicks_ his tongue in amusement. "Still deadly even when you don't have a weapon."

"I used an old spring from my bed," looking down to the mattress she sighs; the scene was scarlet. "He bled everywhere."

"That explains the cleaners that were here for a week," he coughs, "and the poisonous scent of bleach."

"It's worse in here," she jokes dryly.

He chuckles, "where?"

"Right side; throat."

"No wonder."

"I…" she squeaks.

"You, what?"

Kou narrows her eyes as the memories flash in her mind—the hands on her neck, fear whenever the door would open at night, the night-stick on his waist and the sounds he made. "I had to."

"Hmm," he hums, "I know."

Lust—it's the deadliest poison of all.

* * *

Word of the chapter: Mutagen.

Mutagen is another word for poison.


	4. Chapter 4

_~ Lunch Tray's and Razor Blades ~_

A comforting meconium for fear—fear toward **the unknown**.

 **Fill in** the blank.

Assumption.

Personal fable.

Connecting the **dots**.

A **lie.**

A rumor.

Your **truth.**

An excuse to be **blind** , so you fit in—so, you're deemed _'normal'._

An argument given to a jury **against** a vigilante personal.

 **Society's protection blanket.**

… _Speculation._

 _._

 _._

 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

 _._

 _._

Joy—a word that should never sit within the walls of a mental institution, or so he believes.

Scanning the grounds with a narrow gaze his skin crawls for many gleeful smiles on patience faces. The thick tension _temporarily_ at bay—but yet close enough to taste.

The blue-eyed mute couldn't comprehend the guard's sudden generosity—why would they allow the patience outside?

To him it's nothing but a joke—a constant reminder—a cruel irony.

A hot glare on the large chain-link fence, barbwire top sitting like a crown and vas abyss beyond the metal barrier. (If anything) it's a statement: they are nothing but caged birds—coo-coo birds.

His white sneakers cause a hummed-crunch to sing from the well-watered grass as he walks towards large oak-tree shading a corner furthest from the doors. He wants nothing but to be as far away from the white-building; hidden if possible.

Eye lingering to the guard wearing smirks, their blue-uniform and hugging an over-shown weapon around their waist; he listens to the bustling of the patience. Many are cheering for the blinding-sun, numbing scent of fresh air and uncanny texture of dirt… its' like children when they get a new toy; unbelievably happy.

A sigh lingers from his lips as he sits against the scratchy bark base of the tree—he had to admit, feeling something else besides uncomfortable sheets of his mattress is unexplainably nice. It wasn't the true touch that he craved—the bark could never compare to water but he'll take what he can get.

His raven locks tousle in the breeze as he closes his eyes, allowing his surroundings to be shadows into nothing. For over 115 days he's been relying on his memories, recollection, love and imagination to calm his skin-itching urge for water.

Blue—peaceful—heavenly—as the light dances off the surface like fine-rays of hope. The memories of being weightless and free cover his mind—the air trapped in his lungs is a warming feeling as he just… floats at the cool pool bottom.

 _Shuffle_ —his eyes snap up.

Looking over the yard he doesn't see the source of the movement—all the other patience are still far away from him. He looks up, wondering if the breeze caused the noise as it moves the branches but it didn't make sense—the _shuffling_ had to come from a human-being.

Standing from his spot he circles the tree—he wasn't going to be caught off guard by one of the psychopaths that are easily entertained by dirt.

Face still emotionless he looks over the area… searching.

He halts when he finds the source—crouched down on the other-side of the tree, bright eyes watching a line of ants through the grass, white outfit cladded to her body, flame-colored hair blown in a gust of wind and a hinted smile the woman sits.

What should he say? Should he say something? Would she be anger if he interrupted or disappointed for him being silent?

"Society would be better off if we worked like ants"—her sweet voice kisses his ears; walking over he crouches down near her form.

The line of ants march tightly together towards a large hill, not paying them any mind as they watch their tiny-neighbors.

"Do you think ant's also have insanity?" Kou asks; she looks over within the shadow of the tree.

Haru feel a slight tug on his heart for the image before him—she looks marvelous but familiar, like he's seen her like this before but in a different setting. Blinking once more the image of a pool-side, a crimson-haired blur and strong perfume of chlorine awaken his mind.

Her eyes remind on his as they flicker with a deepened curiosity, a look he's given her since meeting in the cafeteria. It makes her skin crawl, heart quiver and stomach flutter—an awakening feeling.

Kou looks deep into his blue-eyes as they pierce her like a knife—she's felt this intense stare before; years ago, but how?

Confused Haru sighs—there's no way he'll figure any of this out. For some reason he can barely remember anything, he's surprised he can recall the sensation of water.

Kou looks away—she won't remember, the reason being the medication the nurses give the patience.

The faithful yellow pill: it makes the past a blur. It's to make the patience forget the incidents that landed them in the institution—the doctors and shrinks believe by subduing the climax to their break, it will prevent the craziness from reappearing.

It's believable, especially for those who have the past to build a murderous personality.

Silence falls over the two. By now, they've both gotten used to _their silence_.

Haru may not know her name or story, even condition, but he must admit that their silence moments are enjoyable. After 105 days of being alone, mute and only staring at white-walls; it was comforting to see a splash of class—red—and the surrounding feeling of another presence. She feels the same.

The only person Kou would speak or be around is her cell-neighbor. He's a person she enjoyed talking to, but due to their age difference and his obvious mental-health problems, there were times she stayed away.

Indeed, society speculates her as a danger to others—a threat, but Kou's just a normal person underneath the lawyers and court-systems assumptions made years back.

This man—this blue-eyes nymph reminders her of simpler days, when she was just another girl getting through high-school with priorities being: classes, boys and friends. Somehow, without truly uttering a word, he makes her feel normal—even though normal is more unknown than aliens.

"Do… you miss anything?" his voice cracks; her mind replays his tone: husky, raw and deep like a morning's gruff.

Narrowing her eyes she gazes at the fence—she missed a lot: her mother, brother, being free and not fighting/killing to know she's safe from harm.

"Human touch," Kou suddenly answers.

When she thought about the nights she would wish for someone to be there next to her, cuddling, giving her warmth or just to hold her body; her mother and brother's absence was nothing in comparison. For years, the only touch she would receive was from guard either being: horny and forceful or 'disciplining' her.

"You?" she replies.

His mind instantly goes to water—he missed it more than anything, but he couldn't stop and ponder about her answer—human touch. Haru was never one to receive much touch, except on odd occasions or from his best-friend when can greeted or surprised him, but besides that nothing came to mind.

"Water."

 _._

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 _Tray's ~ Razor Blades_

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Sheets crackling—annoyance flaring and unidentifiable screams. Insanity has claimed another victim.

The red head narrows her eyes as the screaming continues. She could hear them, the guard, trying to detain the lunatic-patient as they thrash about the hallway like a fish out of water.

' _Sedate him already…'_ her thoughts growl.

She can't think straight with the ruckus which irritates her more than words, especially now, when there was a certain subject she wanted to ponder over in silence. But no, today of all days, someone had to break and ruin the silence of the special insanity-wing— _of course._

"Masa— _ah!_ "—Kou sits up from her bed; the high-pitch tone and shriek allows the story to play through her mind like a song stuck inside.

A nurse—more or less, the nurse that always tends to _this_ specific patient—has been either pushed or caught within the person trashing and panic. A sign that sedation would be forgotten and force would be used preferably.

"God dammit," she hisses through her teeth while angrily approaching her cell-door.

Ruby eyes look through the glass, fingers opening the slot in the middle as she watches the scene.

A large male—preferably six-foot-two—clad in white with raven locks. He's being forced into the room opposite to hers. She doesn't know why but could careless—she just wants peace.

Five guards are fighting with him—a nurse on the floor hold a _pathetic_ damsel expression as she watches in fear. Such a scene could have been prevent with a single shot or a _lovely_ jacket; simple and common sense. Somehow, common sense is hard to find now but it's easily found in these white-walls of insanity.

"If you don't control him dammit, throw him in with me!"—she snaps her gaze to the left towards her neighbor. She knows the other-lunatic enjoyed his silence; it helped him relax and straighten the voices in his head, but now that it's disturbed the different demands are maximized. "My rooms can use a little… color," he laughs evilly, "preferably _red_."

Kou smirks and raises a brow. She hadn't seen this side of the male before—even with the loud shouts of new arrivals—he would always say something more demanded.

"Oi, guard," she hollers; one of the five looks back from his work. "You know," she giggles, "us crazy enjoy a little show—especially when it's done by amateurs."

"Yeah, she's right," her neighbor chirps, "the struggle, frustration and tiredness. It gives me a boner just watching it from here—I'm so excited."— _now that was more than just sick; it's disgusting._

"Just sedate him already," the red-head rolls her eyes in a tiresome-way. She didn't want any part in antagonizing the guard now, especially after the comment from her left—Kou enjoys a good irritated guard or two, but when it comes to truly iconic insanity she wants no part.

Flopping back onto her bed she buries her face deep into the pillow trying to lessen the ruckus, and closes her eyes.

 _Blue—stark blue like the sky or ocean_.

Another scream causes her eyes to snap open and the image to vanish. She can't get that man out of her head, but she didn't want the thought to flea; she wants it to stay because _blue_ is the only splash of color for her between these irony-filled-walls.

 _._

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 _Tray's~ Razor Blades_

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 _._

His mind is shattered with questions.

Who? Where? What? How? Why?

He doesn't understand—now he's curious, curious about the patient who was dragged from a room further down the hallway, clothes covered in dried blood and hands painted cherry-red.

The man was screaming for something that can't be descripted.

This is the first—not the first time he's seen insanity; oh no, that virginity was _popped_ a while back—but, the first time he's saw someone being dragged into a different wing. Haru didn't know there was more than his wing; well, he figured there was only three.

1: the minors'.

2: general crazies.

3: isolation.

Number two is _supposed_ to be his home now. But, he heard the guards telling the nurse that the patient was going to the _other_ wing, one on the east-side. An unknown cell-hall.

That's when the swimmer heard the nurse gasp the words: _'Disorders?'_ —the guard just nodded.

He doesn't get it—what does she mean by disorders? Haru thought his wing covered most of them, along with isolation. Would that make more sense? No, no, there is much more it seems.

Sitting up from the mattress he peers his gaze on the white-walls— _'that woman. That red-eyed woman. She's never walked through this wing; has she?'_

With her bright-head of hair, he would think he'd see her instantly. She sticks out like a sore-thumb.

Could she be in that unknown wing?

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _Word of the chapter: speculation._


	5. Chapter 5

_~ Lunch Tray's and Razor Blade ~_

A gradual irritation—similar to hearing a constant _hum_ from static. It slowly eats away at patience until there is nothing left—except a tiny (microscopic) grain of sand.

Lots of pondering swarms that grain until the static _roars_ louder than it has for the last movement of the clocks hand. Sweat rolls down a cheek—eyes flick widely with temptation—thoughts feel like whispers against flesh and hand shake uncontrollably.

Irritation's a simple tool that can break individuals—it's the weakest of them all, but the quickest to fraternize with common behavior.

If annoyance is an easy playing-card, then…

What can intervene a person's being completely?

.

.

.

 _Suicide attempt—two counts of homicide—un-readable scans—normality within society and frequencies—feels emotions and regret—excellent mask._

Tossing the large file onto the organized desk, the therapist sighs heavily—this woman, Matusoka Kou, has a twisted novel within her file. No wonder his colleague burnt-out; from reading the mountains of paperwork and analysis, it's easy to say: 'there's something _different_ about this particular inmate'.

Hot dancing steam fills his nose from the coffee—regardless of the bitterness, settle hint of sweet and wavering cling of cream; nothing can awake him from the dream—the dream _she's_ created in her file like fine art. Rei never expected anything less from the red-headed woman; on several accounts he'd listen to his co-work babble continuously about her at dinners, he'd recall memories of the young-manager from his past and knew it is her indeed.

As a young adolescent interest perked for the beauty of the red-atmosphere surrounding Kou. He'd watch her in a silent secret; from the poolside, in a distance, even from the window next to his desk. For years Rei observed and tried to understand what made _her_ so special—what caused such an addictive persona to this woman?

Even now, with her life-story in the palms of his hands—every tiny, microscopic detail at his finger-tips; nothing begins a thesis.

From the fibers and parental-influence, not to mention her ability to socialize within citizen—she's _supposed_ to be an ideal individual, one that would give great worth to the world, possibly a lawyer or doctor. So, what is the missing-piece to her unravelling truth? Where's the slightest millisecond glimpse of insanity?

"Guard," Rei sighs; tossing his glasses onto the scattered pile and rubbing the sleep roughly from his eyes. "Please fetch me patient: 2004251"—he couldn't sit here any longer with questions stuck on his tongue. If he wants to know something, he'll just have to asking the woman himself, even if it triggers or awakens something within her.

"Right away," the guard ods before vanishing deep into the institution.

Slickly, he places a cigarette between his lips and flicks a flame allowing the end to turn a wondrous amber. In the past, when his life rotated around sports he never thought tobacco would become a soothing-meconium, then again Rei never saw himself working with psychopaths either.

His eyes flicker to the maroon haired woman in the tiny picture—she's pale as ice, eyes dull and red, hair flowing over her shoulders and body cladded in her white-uniform. By looking deep into her orbs, he can see the sorrow and depression seeping through, but, there's definitely not a trance of insanity.

"A schizophrenic, huh?" he sighs while smoke fills the air.

He's analysis and stared into the eyes of hundreds of schizophrenics, but when he looks into Kou's eyes he doesn't see one—he only see's misunderstanding, something that isn't allowed within his field of work.

Don't believe a patient, just listen and observe—hear their story but never try to change it, allow them to believe what they wish to. For, you cannot change someone's point-of-view, just, understand and be a listener. The last time he listened and believed a word from one of his patience, he nearly fell-in-love with a psychotic.

No matter the beauty on the outside, the true beauty is within their lies. A crazy-person can easily guide anyone into their web, the most innocent and intelligent, it's like breathing. You'll never notice that you're being dragged into another world—a world where everything is backwards, but there's no moving forward. Ever.

A knock fills the air awakening him from his thoughts. Gazing over he meets two deep-red orbs being shoved into the room unpleasantly by the guard. Rei ashes the cigarette and waves the girl to one of the chairs in his office—by glancing at the clock on the wall, he could understand the bags and exhaustion written on the woman's face. Guard aren't allowed to awake the patient's until seven or eight in the morning, nor are they allowed to have them walking the halls past ten-o-clock.

He's called her to his office at midnight—when everyone in the building should be gone home and in bed by now, sleeping with their loved ones' and dreading the early morning. But, due to his decision of taking on his co-workers patience he hast to be here and look over her notes, but that's fine—it's not like he has a partner at home waiting for him or anything; there isn't a cat or dog needing his attention. It's just him.

"I apologize for calling you into at such a late-hour," he begins; the half-asleep woman flops into the chair and leans back with her eyes closed. "I know this interrupts your sleep schedule—"

"What do you want?" Kou asks impatiently; the years she's listened to her shrink dance around her intended-questions has causes her to become an expert on knowing when someone wants something from her. She hates it when people try to avoid being blunt. "I don't dance."

Rei smirks, "sharp as ever, Matusoka-san, but then again, I would be disappointed if I got any less."

She sighs heavily but doesn't respond, no matter how much she wishes to spit in his face and curse due to her lack-of-sleep. If he's going to be asking something, at this hour, it better be about something pretty _fucking_ good—like getting out of this hell-hole or news about her family, but, she doubts either will be the question.

"Fine, fine," he says, hands rambling through papers and files as his looks throughout the sheets like a man-on-a-mission. "What caused it?"—Kou raises a brow—"What caused you to snap?"

' _That's the question? A pathetic question like that? He woke be up at this time of night just for this shit?! Is he mad?!'_ —her nails dig deep into leather as her mind fills with the past and the day she was deemed crazy—a joke.

"Never," she solemnly answers and stands from the chair before walking towards the door. "Night."

 _._

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 _Trays~Blades_

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 _._

 _Chlorine scented air—bright blazing sun reflecting off the curling waves of the water. Sounds of laughter, pants and chatter rings the area each time the swimmer turns his head for a breath._

 _A normal day for the swim-club._

 _The wall gets closer, his lungs begin to burn while pushing himself for the last length. Graceful he stands, feet planted on the tile bottom, hand flat against the cool wall and hair swaying back-and-forth spraying water throughout the pool._

" _Why do you swim, Haruka-senpai?"—he's heard this before, a long time ago. It's a question that he hasn't heard before because he never thought about the reason, no one really asked either._

 _Looking over his eyes land on a red-blur crouched down by the poolside._

 _It's a girl—he knows such, but that's all he can recall. There is no name or face, just a blur of red and a voice._

" _Haruka-senpai?"—there it is again; the sweet innocent voice that feels like water. It's familiar, but, for some reason he's forgotten that person which is frustrating to the mute-teen._

 _._

 _._

Blue eyes snap open—the painfully bright ceiling of the cell awaken the quiet-man harshly. A groan comes from his lips as he sits up from the squeaky mattress and rubs the sleep from his eyes in irritation—the dream, it's the first he's had in many months. Is it a dream or a memory?

" _What was that?!"_ Haru grinds his teeth while flashbacks of the dream echo his mind.

Looking over to the hallway, he noticed the lights are still dim which either meant: it's still night or early morning. Either way, the guard outside his cell wouldn't bring him to the bathroom or for a walk. He's stuck inside this dungeon of white.

Since the beginning, for some reason beyond him, he's been remembering—remembering the past. Everyone and thing he wanted to forget from his years of school were rushing back like the highest pressure turned on a faucet, never ending and filled with an uncanny sound. The people or person are blurbs of color, the area is clear— a pool, same torturous hallways and smells of chlorine. How could he remember all these details and not a single person?

He could remember his friends and events but there's always that blurred person—red—cheering with a voice he's grown addicted to, it's like a drug, a high and gradually settling buzz.

Rolling over he sighs and shuts his heavy eyes—he didn't want to think, didn't wish to feel or remember. Maybe it's for the best—maybe this person is nothing but a painful reminder, one he's pushed away and had to forget. But, how could someone that sounds so wondrous cause such pain and sorrow?

Then there's the girl—or rather, woman—he couldn't get her out of him mind. He's doesn't know where her cell is located, who she is, what her diagnose is and how she landed in this facility. Yet, somehow, whenever he sees' or is near the nameless-woman, his mind is free like he's deep in water and staring up to the surface while floating aimlessly. There must be a reason for this madness, for his sudden madness.

Fingers running over his face, he groans—there's no clocks in the area, probably because some lunatic from the past took it down, killed someone or themselves. Then again, it could be that the institution is too cheap—clocks weren't needed for patients who couldn't differentiate from reality and personal fantasy. For all he knows, the medication could make the clock look like melting sticks of plastic dripping down the stork-white backing, smearing the numbers in disarray while the ticking screams in his ears over the humming silence.

He isn't crazy—it's the medication—yes, definitely the medication. Perhaps it could be the un-telling white walls and their extremely well-hidden secrets. Someone's lived in his room before, but now they're gone like the wind. Maybe they were released into society, died an unruly death or worse from this pit of hell.

 _Tap! Tap! Tap!_

Haru looks over the tiny-window, the bulb-like end of the nightstick burns his eyes as he notices the slow-moving patients walking down the hall, one-by-one like tiny children clinging to a rough rope and a nun as a teacher.

"Wake-up!" he grunts for the guards shout and stands from the bed, throwing the sheets over the stone-mattress and placing the pillow properly.

Once the white-hatted nurse appears next to the guard, Haru curses under his breath—he didn't want to swallow the rainbow of drugs or get lost in high doses of powdered heroine. But he's learned the routine.

You stand in front of your bed even sit sometimes, wait for the guard to look in and nod to the nurse who rolls in a large cart that rattles with everyone's medication lined up like solitary soldiers. He's to huff them back while the nurse tries to make conversation, a sip of water will wash away any heavy lumps the meds create when stuck and fighting to be first.

A long annoying yet refreshing _buzz_ fills his cell, on cue the guard looks in and flicks the lights on—burning Haru's eyes to a crisp. The control-freak of a man nods to the nurse, and the rattle of the cart begins to get louder and louder, breaking only once for the slight break in the floor for the doorframe.

Her mouth opens while fiddling with plastic cups.

"How did you sleep last night?"—her voice is high like nails against a chalkboard.

"I heard that you made a friend in the cafeteria,"—what's it to her?

" _She's not a friend just a pest that I don't want to get rid of,"_ his thoughts charm.

"She's the pretty one," his eyes narrow for her words, "the one in the _other_ wing."—' _So there is another wing._ '

"Here you go"—his eyes stare at the misty-cup and blurred colors. "She's really nice apparently. The other nurses tell me that she's one of the patients who don't talk much, like you. And—and, when she does it's about their perfume, hair, make-up or other girly things. For some reason it's only one sentence and it's frank, not to mention there is a group of nurses that have to be in the room—" he blocks her out; there was enough information given, especially since now he knows there's another wing. Probably something the chatty-nurse isn't supposed to tell him, but due to her dying need for a listening ear she couldn't resist.

The woman… she's observant and reserved, doesn't like to talk but will when she notices something is new or different. It's a new note within Haru's mind, one that will be placed under his _'new friends'_ unknown personal. It's a tiny fragment but it's better than nothing, seeming as he doesn't know her name or diagnoses—two major concerns for any normal person but not for the mute.

She's nothing but a nameless face to look at, to talk about to his shrink to build on his retrial case and to fend away the extremely insane. A pone—a good one at that—she's another chess-piece to his world away from water—or so he believes.

"All done," the nurse sings; the bed bounces as she stands and grasps the cart.

Listening to the squeaking of the wheels he closes his eyes until the guard is given the 'okay' for breakfast. Once a tap of the nightstick is heard Haru stands and walks towards the door only to be grabbed by the arm by the same guard.

In the beginning, Haru would thrash about and grunt but it only made it worse. Compliance is key for the institutions staff. They're like stubborn and spoiled dogs, they use violence to get as they wish and become timid when said-thing is given. It would make a psychologist laugh.

His eyes quickly scan through the other cells down the corridor—searching for the red-headed woman. He figured, if the gossip is true he wouldn't be able to spot her during his walks to the common areas unless her cell was at the very end of the hallway, but something inside him knew she wasn't down his wing. Call it intuition—lunacies or crazy, but it is there rumbling in his gut like starvation.

"Have a good breakfast, freak," the guard hisses while roughly tossing him into the cafeteria.

Stumbling forward Haru shakes off the roughness, his sharp-eyes are on the red-head sitting at the table minding her own business. She's aimlessly creating circles in the trail of white-slop—aka: cream-of-wheat—aka: sand mixed with water or spoiled milk.

Quietly he makes his way to the lunch-trays and incredibly short line—a perk from his cells placing.

The regular scent of morning welcome him as he stand behind another patient—aged grease, reek of morning breath and onions, either from the 'eggs' inside the tins or lack of deodorant.

Listening to the sound of the plastic bowls on the metal-top he places the food on his tray, eyes still hot on the ginger as he steps in union with the rest of the patience. Once at the end of the lunch-ladies circus he heads towards the table to greet the mysterious-red-painted-woman.

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Hey guys, sorry for the long wait there has been a lot of things that have been going on throughout my life. But, I am not on summer break and starting to update stories gradually.

At the end of one of my other stories I did mention that I did have another story idea for HaruXGou and didn't know whether I want to write it in third or first person. What do you guys think?

Also, I mentioned opening up an Instagram for my pen-name for everyone to see what I am working on or when there might be an update. Tell me if you think it would be helpful to you or not!

Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter.

Until next time,

~ VintageTyperWriter2346


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